


Coming Home

by fmpsimon



Category: DBZ - Fandom, Dragon Ball, Dragon Ball Z
Genre: F/M, Family, Fluff, Romance, Vegebul
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 11:02:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7974451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fmpsimon/pseuds/fmpsimon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Every traveler has a home of his own, and he learns to appreciate it the more from his wandering.” – Charles Dickens</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Home

The wind was fierce against his face as he flew through the sky.  He didn't know where he was going, but at the same time, he knew exactly where he was headed: West City. He landed roughly on the front lawn of Capsule Corp.  He was still sore from the fighting, though it had been days ago.  The hours of aimless flying hadn't helped either.  Or the day he'd spent training in the nearby desert.  He walked slowly up the front path, hesitant.  He cursed himself.  What was he so afraid of?  He clenched his fist, which triggered pain in his arm.  He was just clutching his arm when the door flew open.  He looked up.

"Vegeta?"  Bulma Briefs stood before him, baby Trunks in her arms, propped up by her hips.  She looked him up and down.  "You look terrible."

"It's nothing," he dismissed, averting his eyes.  "Just a scratch."  He glanced at her, trying to read her face, but she revealed nothing.

"I was just about to take Trunks to the park," she said, moving the baby to her other hip.  "Feel free to go in and rest, if you need it.  There's plenty of food and drinks in the fridge.  Just help yourself."

He narrowed his eyes.  Why was she treating him like this?  This wasn't the dynamic he was used to.  He thought she would have at least yelled at him a little, or chastised him for being away so long.  But nothing.  He looked after her; she was almost to the street.  He quickly pulled the door closed and caught up to her.  "Do you always leave your front door wide open?" he said, coming up behind her.

Bulma stopped, turning her head slightly.  "Huh, I guess you're not staying."  He detected the slightest bit of disappointment in her tone, but the layer of anger overshadowed it.

"That _is_ my son you're holding," Vegeta said.  Bulma's feet halted for a half a second, but she didn't turn her head.  With that extra second, he fell in step with her.  "I have to make sure you treat him properly.  You and your parents have spoiled him far too much as it is.  How do you expect him to grow up a warrior like his father if you shower him with gifts and praise for nothing?"  He glanced at her in time to see the small smile that spread over her lips before it was gone.

They walked together in silence until they reached the park.  Vegeta found a bench off to the side and sat down, watching Bulma fuss over Trunks until he managed to escape.  He heard her shout something, before she gave up, sighed, and sat down next to him.

"I worry about him playing by himself," she said quietly, watching the toddler.  "He's half Saiyan, and he's already strong.  He could pull the whole jungle gym down on top of himself.  Or some other little kid," she said with a grimace.  Vegeta stared at the boy as he pulled himself up the ladder, rung by rung.  He _was_ strong, she wasn't wrong.  Strong like his father.  He felt pride swelling in his chest.  "What's with you, anyway?" she said, and he deflated.  "I didn't think we'd be seeing much of you anymore, with Cell gone and all."

"I'm full of surprises," he said flatly.

"You certainly are."  She stared at him.  "But I'm prepared to raise him on my own," she said, anger rising in her voice.  "So if you think you're just going to show up and play daddy for a day every few years, think again.  I'd rather Trunks grew up without a father than one who only shows up on birthdays and holidays--one who doesn't care."  He felt her eyes boring into his skull, but he didn't look at her.  He was ashamed this was how she saw him, ashamed that this was who he was: a father who was never there.  "Looks like nothing has changed with you.  You're still only thinking of yourself--"

"I'm not fighting anymore," he interrupted her, staring ahead.

"What?"  She gaped at him.  "What do you mean, you're not fighting anymore?"

"I was arrogant, I thought I could beat Cell alone.  I was irresponsible.  I let him reach his final form."  He clenched his fists.  "I almost got my son killed.  I can't let that happen again."  He closed his eyes briefly.

"Vegeta," she breathed.  She put her hands around his fist and he slowly relaxed.  He looked down at their entwined fingers, wondering how it had happened.  "You don't have to love me," she said softly.  "I don't even know if you _can_ love.  But…" her voice trembled a little, "it would be really great if...if you would stay."

He nodded, staring resolutely at the playground where his son was going down the slide for at least the fifth time.  And each time he reached the bottom, he ran as fast as he could to the ladder, to climb up and do it all over again.  "I'm staying."

Bulma suddenly shot up.  “Trunks!  Trunks, no rough-housing with the other kids!  No!  You put that kid down this instant!” she shouted, running to the playground.  Vegeta chuckled, watching his son holding another boy by his ankle.  He couldn’t wipe the smirk from his face when Bulma returned, spanking the child as she walked.  “Like father, like son,” she murmured irritably, glaring at him as she walked past.  “Let’s go, Vegeta.  Time to go home.  Trunks needs a nap!”  She practically had to yell over the boy’s screaming.

Vegeta walked behind them, staring at the boy, until their eyes locked.  Trunks stared at him, wide-eyed, and then he frowned, and his bottom lip started to quiver.  Vegeta looked away; his own son was afraid of him.  He wasn’t surprised—he was a stranger to Trunks.  The boy was already a year old and he had spent almost no time with him.  It was not too dissimilar to the relationship he'd had with his own father, and he certainly didn't want to end up like that.  He had been given a gift--a glimpse into the future--and this was his chance to change things.

“Here, take him.”  Bulma handed him the baby and dug around in her purse for the house keys.

He held Trunks out in front of him, staring from the baby to Bulma.  Trunks took one look at him and immediately started crying for his mother, flailing his chubby arms.  “What do I do?” he sputtered.

“Hold onto him while I open the door,” Bulma said through gritted teeth.  She flung the door open and marched inside.  “Put the baby in the crib,” she said, grabbing a wine glass and uncorking the nearest bottle.

Vegeta gently deposited his son in his crib.  Bulma handed him a bottle of formula and he stuck it in the child’s mouth.  After a moment, Trunks’s tantrum had quieted to a whimper, before stopping altogether.  He emptied his bottle, dropping his arms.  Sniffling, he looked up at Vegeta.

“Trunks, that’s Daddy,” Bulma said, smiling.  Trunks frowned, looking up at him, his eyebrows knit together.  In an instant, Trunks narrowed his eyes, raised his arm, and threw the empty bottle at his father’s head.

“Why, you little!” Vegeta growled, raising his fist.

“Vegeta!” Bulma scolded.  “He’s just a baby!  You can’t expect him to trust you yet.  He doesn’t even _know_ you.”

“I’ll be outside,” he said, without another look at them.

“I just put him down for his nap,” Bulma said when she found him leaning against the side of the house.  “He was tired.  He always gets crabby when he’s tired.  Like someone else I know,” she said, nudging him.  He scowled.  “You’re probably pretty hungry, huh?  Come inside and I’ll fix you a sandwich.”

He sighed and followed her inside.  This had been his decision, to go back and be a part of their lives.  No matter how much he felt like giving up right now, he had to try.  He ate his sandwich silently, listening to Bulma chatter on.  As much as he would have hated to admit it, he had missed her incessant babbling.

“He’ll get used to you, y’know,” the words stuck out amongst the rambling.  “You have to admit you are a _little_ scary at first glance.”

He smiled a little.  “I prefer imposing.”

“Semantics,” she scoffed, cleaning up the dishes.  She poured herself another glass of wine.  “It will be nice to have someone else to help with Trunks.  My parents are pretty useless in that department.  All they do is spoil him.”  She leaned against the counter, loosely gripping the glass, staring at him.

“Help?” Vegeta said, eyeing her.  “You’re the woman, aren’t you?  Isn’t that your job?”

“This isn’t the Stone Age—fathers _do_ help nowadays,” she said with an exaggerated sigh.

“You forget I’m not human.”

She rolled her eyes.  “Oh, I didn’t forget.”

Now, he _really_ regretted returning.  Why was this woman so argumentative?  She was worse than he was!  He took a deep breath in, watching her tip her wine-glass back.  The wine probably had something to do with it.  Humans were always drinking so much alcohol, some to the point where they lost control of their own minds.  He didn’t understand it, but he expected Bulma did this frequently.  And he was sure that was partly his fault.  He knew raising the boy on her own had been hard, even if she would never admit it—and she never _would_ admit it.  Her pride was one of the things that drew him to her.  He wanted to make up for those hard times.  That’s why he was here now, as uncomfortable as it was, living amongst strangers.

He watched her as she pulled a long stick from a carton in the drawer.  She stuck it in her mouth and lit the end on fire.  He had seen other humans doing this on Earth.  Smoking, he thought it had been called.  She took a long drag and blew the smoke out the side of her mouth.  He couldn’t hide his disgust.  “What are you doing?”

She put a hand on her hip.  “What, now?”

“Why do you insist on consuming so many chemicals?” he said, putting his fists on the table.  “I didn’t come back here to watch you slowly kill yourself.”  She looked taken aback, blinking at him.  “Now, get that disgusting thing out of your mouth.”

For once, she did as she was told, and put the cigarette out.  He got up and started walking away.  “Where are _you_ going?” she demanded.

“To bed,” he replied, disappearing down the hall.  He walked slowly down the hallway, glancing into rooms as he passed them.  He stopped in front of a small bedroom.  There was a single bed by the window, with a small desk next to it.  He remembered this room.  He had recuperated here after training too hard before the Androids arrived.  With a sick feeling in his stomach, he realized that was the last time he had slept in the house.  He stepped inside and drew the curtains closed, blocking out the light of the setting sun.  He closed the door, removed his boots, gloves, and shirt, and laid down.  He stared at the ceiling, his brow furrowed.  Minutes passed, then hours.  He tossed and turned, but couldn't sleep; his mind would not shut off.  He couldn't get their conversation off of his mind.  He felt a tightening in his chest.  Was this guilt?  Remorse?  He cared about her, and the only way he could show it was to yell at her.  Of course, this wasn't entirely his fault--she had been extremely testy.

He opened his eyes when he heard a soft sound coming from the room across the hall.  The sound got louder.  Crying.  It was the baby.  He waited a few minutes, growing more and more annoyed.  Where was Bulma?  Was she just going to ignore her crying child?  He let out a frustrated grunt, casting the blanket aside and getting out of bed.  He opened the door and cast an angry look down the hall, meant for Bulma, but seen by no one.  He carefully opened the door to his son's room, peering inside.  Somehow he felt it would be easier to face Cell right now.

Trunks wailed as Vegeta crossed the room to the crib.  He looked around.  A radio-like device sat on a nearby table.  He guessed that was what Bulma used to keep an eye on Trunks when he was in his crib.  Needless to say, it was off.

"Mommy!" Trunks cried.

"Your mommy is in her bedroom, sleeping off a bottle of fermented grapes," he said with a smirk.  Trunks cried even louder.  His humor was lost on the child.  What did Bulma do when he cried like this?  He racked his brain for some kind of paternal instinct.  He rubbed his forehead, passing his hand through his hair.  There was only one thing he could think to do.  He looked over his shoulder; he did not want anyone to see this.  He ducked low, put his hands over his eyes, and proceeded to play peek-a-boo.

It took a few rounds and a few facial contortions that Vegeta hoped no other soul would ever see, but Trunks's crying lessened to a whimper, and then stopped altogether.  He stared at his father as if he were studying him.  He opened his mouth, and Vegeta flinched in anticipation of another scream.  "Daddy," Trunks said, pointing at him.

A smile crept onto his face, completely out of his control.  "That's right, Trunks."  He reached in and awkwardly patted the boy on the head.  "Now, go back to sleep."  He turned around and headed for the door, only to be stopped by the sudden wailing of his son.  "Shh!" he hushed, rushing over.  "No one's going to get any sleep with you carrying on like that."  Trunks pouted and stuck his arms in the air, reaching upwards--reaching for his father.  Vegeta froze.  He had held him for a few seconds before, but that was under supervision.  He sighed and picked the child up.  Trunks's eyes were wide, and his lavender hair was wild, sticking out every which way.  Vegeta sat in the nearby rocking chair, setting Trunks on his knee, but he flailed and struggled until Vegeta let him crawl up onto his chest.  He tensed up, but after a moment, Trunks settled down, and he allowed himself to exhale and relax.  After a while, he started to drift off, and finally fell asleep with his son in his arms.

When he woke up, the sun was streaming in through the windows, and he was surprised to find that Trunks was gone.  He blinked, looking around the room.  There was a neat pile of fresh clothes on the table.  He pulled on the shirt and left the room, rubbing his neck, sore from sleeping on the rocking chair.  He stepped into the kitchen, finding Bulma cooking up a storm.  His nose twitched; nothing smelled particularly good.  He crossed his arms and cleared his throat.

"Oh!"  She turned around, surprised.  "You're up!  Did you sleep okay?"

He rubbed his neck, frowning.  "Not particularly," he muttered.  Turning away, he gritted his teeth and said, "I wanted to apologize for last night."

She turned back to the stovetop.  "Last night?  I barely remember it."  He knew she was lying, and even he could hear the smile in her voice.

He folded his arms across his chest.  "You've done well raising our son.  Thank you."  Bulma froze, dropping a frying pan back onto the stove with a clatter, and he watched her compose herself, amused.  He sat down as she prepared a plate for him.

"I'm not much of a cook," she admitted, walking over and setting the plate in front of him.  Without a word, she bent over and kissed his cheek.  He instantly felt his cheeks flush, and was grateful that she went back to retrieve breakfast for herself, allowing him time to compose himself.  He started shoveling food into his mouth, eager to distract himself from awkward emotions.  "How is it?" she asked, sitting down across from him.

"Very good," he said quickly, nodding.

"Liar," she said, smiling crookedly.  "I never did learn how to cook.  Mom and Dad didn't think I'd need to.  They always thought I'd marry another billionaire, and we'd have a host of servants."  She laughed a little.  "I guess it didn't quite turn out that way, huh?"

After breakfast, the two went their separate ways.  Vegeta went out to the gravity chamber to train, and Bulma went to the lab to tinker.  He didn't stop until well after the sun had gone down, and by the time he showered, it was quite late.  He opened the refrigerator, peering inside.

"Vegeta?"  He turned around.  Bulma was watching him blearily from the couch.  "Are you hungry?  Leftovers from dinner are in the fridge."

"Did you make it?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.  She nodded, sleepily.  "I'm not that hungry," he said, quickly shutting the door.  "It's late.  You should be in bed," he said, sitting next to her.

She smiled.  "Sometimes I just sleep out here."  She leaned back, closing her eyes for a minute.  "It's less lonely--I can hear the baby."

She yawned and let her head fall against his shoulder, and, though surprised, he found he didn't mind.  It was even kind of nice to feel her warmth against his skin.  He swallowed, and snaked his arm around her.  She leaned into him, wrapped her arm around his waist.  Though she was taller than him, she felt small in his arms, all curled up.  Her deep, rhythmic breathing signalled to him she had fallen asleep.  "You're not alone," he said softly.  "I'm home now."


End file.
